


Superbia

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blood Magic, Dark, Gen, Lyrium, Magisters, Slavery, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Superbia</i>, n: pride, vanity.</p><p>Danarius's greatest creation was a work of art wrought in flesh and lyrium, his little wolf.  Danarius POV on the lyrium ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superbia

It is a tale told in blood-stained parchment, notes for a long-forgotten glory, scrawling, complex spells and long lists of rare ingredients -- certain herbs, a constant flood of restoratives, massive amounts of lyrium.  The sheer amount of raw magic required staggers him, but the rewards,  _ah_ , the rewards -- his eyes flicker, and he smiles.   _He can do this._   He has only to pick the right subject.

The lad is quick, but so then are many of the elven slaves.  He is strong, but others are stronger.  He is only average for an elf, not the tallest on the field, nor the burliest.  It is unlikely he will grow much taller at this age.

It is something in his eyes that strikes Danarius instead; a ferocity, a feral gleam that keeps the boy standing long after the other slaves have given up.  The boy reminds him of a wild animal, cunning and fierce.  He wavers on his feet, but his fists still curl, at the ready for whatever is next asked of him.  The boy licks the blood from his swollen lips, chest heaving, and asks if he has won.  

The boon the lad asks is a pittance; two freedoms, a trifling sum of money to get the sister and mother out of the way.  The girl is too young to consider for the ritual, and beyond that, Danarius has seen a few quirks that suggest the girl could be coming into magic soon, which would not do for what he intends.  The vast amount of lyrium required would certainly kill a mage, and he has no interest in that sort of waste without cause.

The lad, however, has no magic of his own.  He is respectful and quiet, though there is a hint of sarcasm beneath his words that may prove entertaining, if developed.  Beyond that he is eager, green eyes flashing with anticipation as Danarius leads him to his new quarters.  His hand rests on the boy’s shoulder, and he is pleased to feel the muscles taut beneath his touch.  

It is a small room, scarcely larger than a closet, but it is the lad’s own, and Danarius smiles to see his excitement.  The boy tries to hide it, knowing his manners; he gives a deferent bow of his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes.  Danarius indulges him instead of scolding, and he can almost  _see_  the boy’s loyalty blossoming.

He gets frequent reports from Silus of the lad’s preparations.  Frequent exercise, deep meditations, techniques for braving pain.  All of Danarius’ research, fragmented notes in forgotten tomes that smell of blood and leather, tells him it shall be painful.  Silus tells him the lad never cries and never flinches; he thinks the lad will survive, small and fierce as he is.

The day of the ritual comes, and it is Danarius who is excited now, his magic crackling in his blood, begging to be used.  When he arrives at the chamber, his apprentices and the lad are already waiting for him.  The jars of lyrium cast a blue glow on their faces, their eyes falling into shadow.

The lad lays on the table before him, nude, trembling slightly in the cool air of the chamber.  It is a comfortable table, padded, with the boy’s dark hair fanning out on a red pillow.  Danarius is not certain of how long the ritual will last, but it may take days.  He does not want the lad to suffer unduly, and is pleased that he looks to be comfortable.

“Is he prepared?” he asks the apprentices.  They nod, murmuring.

He looks to the boy.  “Are you ready to serve your master?”

There is a flicker in the lad’s wide eyes, a hint of trepidation buried deep, deep within.  It is gone before Danarius can fully name it.

“Yes, master.”  His voice is sure and strong, the only undercurrent steel, surprising in one so young.

It is the most difficult magic Danarius has ever performed.  He aches to his bones, the magic drawing its strength from him and the other mages.  He sees the weariness on their faces as they fight to maintain the spell.  It is far more ambitious than he realized, and yet as his silver blade works fine filigrees in flesh, he sees the fruits of his labor; crimson blood in rivulets coursing down the lad’s body, liquid lyrium wicked into the delicate carvings.  The lyrium glows gently in brilliant blue before solidifying into pearly white.  The lyrium is pure, far higher in concentration than what he normally uses, and its song is a hint of ancient music shimmering in his ears.  It is beautiful, and so is his work.

He is grateful that he has chosen well.  The lad trembles against the table, but does not move his position; instead he strains, muscles clenching, teeth gritting, tears streaming down his face to mingle with a cold sweat.  But he is not weeping; they are only eye tears, watering from the intensity of the ritual, and Danarius does not fault him for them.   The boy’s will remains strong.

The patterns on the back go swiftly, soaring curves and arches, clusters of small, perfect circles over the body’s most sacred points.  The lyrium begins to fuse with the flesh, becoming something better, something new.  It is a masterwork he is creating, an elevation of flesh and blood.

He is forced to proceed more slowly on the tattoos on the lad’s front.  The boy’s breathing becomes harsh, and it is difficult to concentrate with the way the air hisses between his teeth with every breath.   Still, though, the lad is trying.  He has bitten his lip badly enough that it bleeds, scarlet smudging his chin; he does not seem to notice.  His eyes are fixed on a point on the ceiling, pupils black hollows edging out the green.  He does not cry out.

Danarius does not know how long it has been as he finishes the marks on the boy’s throat, laying down each line with intense care and deliberation, ensuring he does not cut too deeply on the thin skin.  He thinks perhaps it has been days, but the magic roaring through him and the others will not let him rest until it is complete.

He calls for a cloth, uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow before dabbing the boy’s chin, soaking up the blood.  The boy’s eyes catch his, piercing, their expression unreadable.  

“We are nearly complete,” Danarius says to the others, and the relief is palpable; they are all exhausted, all near collapse.  The air is thick with the taste of lyrium.

Carefully he angles the edge of the knife, drawing its sharp blade through the skin just beneath the lower lip, tracing down to the chin on one side, then the other.  The lyrium creeps into the marks, settling in and binding to the flesh.  

The boy’s eyes dart back and forth now, at times staring at Danarius, at others seeking the gazes of the apprentices.  He looks wild, now, almost frantic.  His teeth tear at his lip again, opening a new wound, but the blood flow does not disturb the new markings.  

Danarius lets out a long, shivering breath.  He is so close, now.

He brushes the boy’s dark hair back from his eyes, gently tucking it behind his ears.  He positions the knife over the soft skin between the boy’s brows, slowly twirling the tip to create one, two circles filled with silvery blue.

The final mark, now.  He sets the knife, the mark between the first two circles, right between the eyes.  The clear tears streaming from the boy’s eyes streak his face as the knife presses.

The lad lets out one sound.  A whimper.  It’s so small and soft Danarius would not have heard it had he not been so near.

Danarius carefully sets the knife down beside the lad, raises his aching arms, joins his magic fully with the others.  The spells of binding and joining shift into their full strength, and the energy flows into the boy laying prone on the table before them.  The sound of the magic roars, power shivering through the air, drowning out anything else.  The boy’s face shifts into a scream, silent in the face of the flooding magic, and then it happens.

The markings, beautiful, elegant in blue and red,  _change_  --

And the lad  _coruscates_ , his entire body translucent aquamarine, light and lyrium flowing within him in a stunning glory that scarce can be imagined.

It lasts for but an instant, but Danarius’ heart leaps;  _he has done it_.  Magic that has been forgotten for millennia lives and breathes in the boy.  He has done it! 

Danarius lowers his arms, the siphon of magic finally breaking off.  He stumbles to the edge of the table, looking down at his work, and gasps.  With a shock he realizes that the boy has changed.  The dark hair that was so soft beneath his fingertips is now utterly white, changed by either the lyrium or the magic, Danarius is not sure which.  He touches the boy’s face, a caress of his cheek.

“It is over,” he says, pulling his hand away.  “You have done well.”

The boy stares at him, shaking, his hands slowly moving from by his sides to curl up against his chest.  The lines of lyrium on the fronts and backs of his hands look astonishing.  

“Master --” he chokes.  “I can’t --”

“Yes?” says Danarius.  “What is it you are trying to say?”

“I can’t remember,” the boy whispers.  He still breathes raggedly, his face pale, dark circles beneath his eyes.  “Can’t remember -- anything.”

Danarius tilts his head to one side, regarding the boy.  His notes have said little beyond describing the pain that would need to be endured, but then again, magic often had unintended consequences.  In this case, he realizes, it is no especial loss.  It will also make the final flourish on his experiment rather easier, an idea that comes to him quite suddenly when he remembers the feral look in the boy’s eyes.

“Do you remember your name?” asks Danarius.

The boy shakes his head, long ears held down, white hair falling over his new markings.  He reaches up with a trembling hand, wiping clumsily at his face.

Danarius smiles.  “It is Fenris,” he says, unable to keep the touch of pride from his voice.  “My little wolf.” 

**Author's Note:**

> why did I write this evil evil thing ;_;
> 
> I tagged it with Danarius/Fenris despite the fact that there was no way it was ever a true relationship since Fenris was incapable of consent in any way. However, it's implied in-game and the writers have said that Danarius used Fenris in multiple ways, so I did throw in some leanings toward that on Danarius' end, despite how skeevy it made me feel.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lyrium Ghost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441087) by [K4t3yK4t](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K4t3yK4t/pseuds/K4t3yK4t)




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